


To beat as one

by MGB



Series: For All the Times [3]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, PTSD, References to Past Child Abuse (non-sexual), references to past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MGB/pseuds/MGB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <img/></p>
</div><p><b>Justin: </b><q><i>You should have at least call to see if I was still alive. </i></q> <br/><b>Brian: </b><q><i>I’m sure I would have heard if you weren’t. Besides I’m not you occupational therapist, I’m not your trauma specialist, I’m not even your god damn mother sitting there holding your hand, there was nothing I could have done for you. </i> </q><br/>...<br/>...<br/><b>Justin: </b><q><i>This is just stuff that other people have told me, it's like a story that happened to somebody else. </i></q><br/><b>Brian:  </b><q><i>Yeah well I can remember, I can remember everything. </i></q></p>
<p>Though never intending to let his inner most thoughts caress the pages of the pricey journal given to him, Brian allows himself to be vulnerable and totally honest with himself for short moments in time, if only so in his own mind.</p>
<p>Set during Season 2, Episode 1 & 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	To beat as one

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Banner by me (incl. drawing).

**Justin:**" _You should have at least call to see if I was still alive.”_"

**Brian:**" _I’m sure I would have heard if you weren’t. Besides I’m not you occupational therapist, I’m not your trauma specialist, I’m not even your god damn mother sitting there holding your hand, there was nothing I could have done for you._ "  
...  
...  
 **Justin:**" _This is just stuff that other people have told me, it's like a story that happened to somebody else._"

**Brian:**" _Yeah well I can remember, I can remember everything._ "

_Queer as Folk (US)_  
Season 2, Episode 1  


  


Growing up in a family where the insults flew, danced and landed in same quantities as dust, where the psychological pain were almost always followed by the physical, the one thing I learnt how to handle was rejection. You either let it take you or found a way to cope. My way of coping was to hide behind a mask, to not let people know more than I allowed and to never go after things that would shatter me if not gained. Early on it was friends that got kept at a distance, later on men. To always have someone new became a way to survive. It provided the human contact, but never made me invest in someone and then have them ripped from me. 

Of the one million and ten different reasons I hate my parents currently on my list, number one million and eleven would be – I hate them for beating my belief of being worthy of someone’s love into a bloody pulp, but failing miserably in the task of erasing my need to be.

Then _he_ came along.  
Made braver by the distance of childhood, the thrill of the hunt and _him_ , I had to have him. As the need refused to ebb, I, like a wave that try to leave the warm, steady shore behind, kept slamming into him and in the moments just as he'd climax I would let myself believe the image of me I could see within his eyes. I let myself believe I could deserve the stories they told and I let myself have that what would shatter me if lost.  
I showed him all I could not say and he got hurt.

Scared by the knowledge of how close I'd come to lose him and numbed by the realization that I no longer could face a world without him in it, I slid my mask back on and pulled away. As the bat broke him it also shattered my fragile belief that I could have the things he'd shown me, that I could deserve them, deserve him.

Robbed of memories and a feeling of sanctuary he came after me once again, now in pain, opened raw and scarred. As I'd held him in my arms, grounding him through the terror his mind and the ghost of memories no longer there caused him, I let the numbness inside lift and as he met my gaze, stripped bare and so brave, I yet again saw the stories, the promises they held. It overwhelmed me, it took me over, it took me in…

I returned him to the place he refused to call home only after he felt assured that it would not be forever. He demanded me to confirm my promise, if only with a gaze, and only once he received it did he leave me with Jennifer. Still warm inside from _my_ Sunshine, she asked me to leave, to not be with him for his well being.  
Gutted.  
Bleeding.  
My eyes begged her to let me have him, begged her to see inside me and see that my soul was as hurt as his, but no words made it past my lips. Past rejections, where it, for a child, had really mattered haunted me and if I did not ask, beg and plead the answer could not be "No". 

As his pain mounted and burst out of him she saw past her own pain and fears and as she begged me to take him, fix him, a glimmer in her eye acknowledged that she saw me, shattered and in need, and gave me the permission to claim anew. 

Lifting my gaze from my fingers mindlessly caressing the soft letter of the journal in front of me, I scan the loft trying to locate him, needing to be reassured he’s here, safe, with me. I find him sleeping on the sofa. For just a second I worry that the acrylic paints, now dried on his hands, will stain the fabric and then it hits me fully, deep within; he’s here, he’s safe. 

As pulled by a magnet I am drawn to him and well there my gaze caress the trails of paint left on him and soon my fingers lightly, reverently follow. He tried to paint, to use his hand earlier today and when it refused to cooperate he dipped his fingers in the paint and traced lines on his hands and arms. When asked what he was doing he just told me that if he couldn’t create art right now he’d at least have the scent around him, on him to remind him what he’s fighting for, to help remind him of who he is.  
I bend down and inhale his scent, try to peel away one layer at a time, one for each breath, to like a connoisseur feel every aspect of him and I feel heady.

Needing to be closer to him, the need almost overwhelming, I lift and carry him to our bed, where I lay down next to him. With a content sigh he shifts even closer and settles against my body, still none the wiser to the change in location, still fast asleep.  
Having him here in my bed, in my arms again, I feel like I can finally breathe.  
Both wounded... The feel of him soothing my soul... as if our wounded hearts being so close, having each other, could beat as a whole, as one.  
With that I let the exhaustion take me and as I fall deeper asleep I feel his presence guide me to that peaceful place that had evade me ever since that night.


End file.
